


Safe With You

by vaughnicus



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Drama, Established Relationship, Eventual Sex, Guns, M/M, Rally gone wrong, some violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-16
Updated: 2015-09-27
Packaged: 2018-03-01 18:05:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2782535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vaughnicus/pseuds/vaughnicus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was supposed to be amazing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally based on a prompt sent to me by an anonymous user on Tumblr. Thank you, darling, although it's been so long since that lovely message that you've probably given up hope. I am sorry about that, but your prompt was so wonderful that my story ended up spiraling out of control. Really, though. Thank you. 
> 
> Enjoy!

 

* * *

 

 

It was a Big Deal. One of those Big Deals that really required the capital letters.

Les Amis had been organizing nearly ten months for this one event: promoting, recruiting, licensing; the works. They'd had the college's Central Square reserved since the beginning of the school year, and now, mere weeks before graduation, everything was coming to a head.

Grantaire watched Enjolras from the sidelines, a safe but accessible distance away. Their group leader was standing on a pre-set platform beside a podium, discussing a few last minute notes with Combeferre. The rally didn't officially start for another fifteen minutes, but already the crowd was almost too big for their location. Lucky Joly had reserved the university's best sound system. Their speakers' voices would likely carry halfway across campus.

Enjolras pulled away from Combeferre to straighten his collar, and Grantaire double checked his pocket to ensure his phone was still safely in place. They'd decided it would be best if they stayed apart during the rally itself but that they'd keep in contact via cellphone should the need arise. Enjolras claimed having Grantaire too close would only distract him from what he needed to say and do, but Grantaire had a sneaking suspicion Enjolras only wanted him away from the front lines to keep him safe. As if he wouldn't rather be with his bullheaded boyfriend to do the exact same thing, but Enjolras wouldn't have it. And everyone knows how great he is at saying no to Enjolras.

A hush suddenly fell over the previously-chatty crowd, and Grantaire looked up to see the object of his affections taking his place at the podium.

It was a breezy day, and as Enjolras began to speak, the wind blew his hair gently from his face and pressed his clothes to his body. Grantaire, as always, found himself struck breathless by the sheer, effortless beauty that emanated from him. And then, somehow, Enjolras found him in the crowd and smiled, never once tripping up his speech even as he spent precious seconds bestowing an expression of all-out affection on Grantaire.

For seven months it had been like this. Quick smiles and gentle touches. Softly-spoken words and tender lips. After the kiss, they'd never had to discuss transitioning from friendship (bordering, at times, on hostility) to something much more. It was a natural evolution, and though their views would never fully align, love had done a lot to soften their arguments.

Enjolras' first bout of speaking was only an introduction. He thanked everyone for coming and welcomed their first speaker, a visiting professor from some faraway Ivy League college. Everyone clapped politely and then she started speaking. Her voice was pleasant enough and she was clearly very passionate, but Grantaire's attention wasn't focused on her. He was busy scanning the crowd, sweeping his sharp eyes over the mass of people. His brow furrowed and he took a step back, getting closer to the edge of the group.

Something had changed. The wind in the Square had shifted, but it wasn't a breeze that was causing the hairs at the back of his neck to bristle.

Grantaire knew this feeling. And, having grown up in a less-than-secure neighborhood, he knew to trust it. He started looking for higher ground so he could get a better picture of the crowd. There was a bench just outside the edge of the Square and stepped towards it, shooting off a quick text to Enjolras that read only 'something's off.' But the professor was just now stepping offstage to applause and Enjolras was taking her place, and he wouldn't check his phone until he was done.

Grantaire could be wrong. He prayed he was wrong and that he was just being paranoid. But as he stepped onto the bench and turned to the crowd, he knew that wasn't the case. It'd grown rowdy within the span of a few minutes, and just as Grantaire selected 'Combeferre' in his contacts, the shouting started.

It was a group near the front but far enough back to be inaccessible to Bahorel and the campus security. Their comments began as mere annoyances, but as Enjolras continued to ignore them and other naysayers became encouraged to join in, they became ever more aggressive. When they turned from criticizing Enjolras' policies to taking note of his feminine stature and threatening acts of violence and worse against him, Grantaire saw red. He hopped off the bench and started pushing his way through the throngs of increasingly agitated people, dodging feet and ducking under swinging elbows. He was halfway to the group of original hecklers when his phone buzzed.

He answered it unthinkingly, having a distant hope it would be Enjolras saying he'd gotten to safety. He'd wrapped up his speech a moment ago with the planned ending but had to (or been forced to, more likely) cut out the bulk of the middle. Grantaire knew he must be furious.

“He-”

It was Enjolras.

It wasn't to say he was safe.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Hello to you to. Are you safe?”

“I'm fine, Grantaire.” And indeed, Enjolras sounded winded but there was little enough background noise to tell Grantaire he'd gotten a safe distance away. “Now tell me why the hell Jehan's just informed me that you are headed _into_ the crowd that's quickly dissolving into a mob.”

“It looked like Bahorel and his goons could use some help.”

“Get out of there, Grantaire.”

“Calm down, Princess, I'm leaving. Looks like they're taking down that group of morons, anyway. Everyone else should lose interest soon enough. I'll head to Combeferre's. Sorry this all went to hell. I know how important this was to you.”

Enjolras sighed. “Well, we got our message out. It didn't turn into anything that bad; no one called the cops and there's been minimal violence so far. The media coverage might even stay positive.”

“Glad to hear it.”

Grantaire was nearly in the clear now, having maneuvered to where the people and action were thinnest.

“Okay, I'm about out. I'll meet you in-”

Just then there was a loud crack, followed by a swell of shouting. A press of people surged Grantaire's way but froze at another gunshot.

Stillness hung in the air for long seconds before a chilling scream cut through the open Square. Terror seized the crowd.

“Shit,” Grantaire hissed, struggling to keep hold of his phone as people ran and shoved past him, oblivious to everything but their fear-stricken need to escape. It took him a minute to even get the device up to his ear, in which time Enjolras' panic had been steadily increasing.

“-aire! God damn it, talk to me! What's going on? Was that a gunshot?” His voice faded briefly as he commanded someone to turn on the TV, and then it was back, stronger than before. “Grantaire!”

“I'm here, I'm fine, cool your jets. It's a little hard to talk on the phone when I'm trying to fight my way out of a panicking crowd.”

“What's happening? Where are you?”

“Almost out of the square. I don't know what's happening. Is everyone else safe?”

“We have everyone here but Feuilly and Bahorel. And you. We've got the news on. They're covering the story but the cameras can't get into the Square. They're saying they've heard gunfire. They don't know if anyone is injured yet or who the shooter is. Or who they are, as the case may be. Grantaire... you have to get out of there.”

“Believe me, Enjolras, I know. I'm trying. I'm almost to the street.”

“Good. Grantaire... be careful. Please. You can't get hurt.”

“Enjolras, I-”

Grantaire paused, stiffening as he looked around. He could have sworn someone had called his name.

“Grantaire!”

There it was again. And even over the din, it was a familiar voice. He twisted around, straining to find the source of the sound.

“Fuck. Sorry, Enj, someone's calling me. Could be Feuilly or Bahorel, but I can't see them.”

“What? No. Feuilly is here. He just arrived. And Bahorel called, he's – look, it's not them. We're all here except you. Now _please_ , Grantaire, get the _fuck_ out of there.”

“Okay. Okay, Enjolras, I'm try-”

“Grantaire!”

The voice was much closer this time. Surprised, Grantaire turned, and lost all the breath in his lungs. Now there was a face he'd tried to forget until now. It'd been years since he'd seen those thin cheekbones, cherry lips, and murderous green eyes.

_Oh, God._

“Hello, Grantaire. Fancy meeting you here.”

_Oh, God. No._

“Please don't.”

Narrow eyes and a cold smile.

Another gunshot sent people scattering, and no one noticed a dark, slim figure dissolve into the crowd and away.

 

 

“... I'm almost to the street.”

Enjolras felt a part of the vice that had been gripping his chest since Jehan told him what Grantaire was doing loosen a little. He was getting away. He was okay. It would be okay.

“ _Good_. Grantaire...” Enjolras swallowed down a rush of emotions, fingers gripping his phone as though it were a lifeline. “Be careful. Please.” He shut his eyes, focusing on keeping a steady heartbeat. “You can't get hurt.” _You_ can't.

“Enjolras, I-”

He cut himself off, or was cut off, and Enjolras turned away from his friends, who were listening intently to the half of the conversation they could hear.

“What is it?” Grantaire didn't answer. He likely didn't even hear.

There was less commotion in the background on Grantaire's end of the call, and Enjolras wanted to take that as a good sign. He wanted it to mean Grantaire was _finally_ getting himself out of danger, but something sharp was sitting in Enjolras' stomach, and he didn't think it would leave until he saw Grantaire for himself, unharmed and standing in Combeferre's apartment with the rest of them.

“Fuck.” Enjolras' attention was immediately on the phone, and he restrained himself from speaking, waiting on an update or explanation. “Sorry, Enj. Someone's calling me. Could be Feuilly or Bahorel, but I don't see them...”

Enjolras frowned, turning again to his friends and making sure to count two different redheads.

“What? No, Feuilly is here. He just got here. And Bahorel called Courf, he's with – look, it's not them. We're all here except you. Now _please,_ Grantaire, get the _fuck_ out of there.”

“Okay. Okay, Enjolras, I'm try-”

The unfinished reassurances were really getting tiring. This one was explained, however, when a faint, unfamiliar voice floated over the line, saying 'Grantaire' in a tone that was urgent but somehow... oily. Enjolras' nails dug into his palm.

“Grantaire. Talk to me. Who is that? Are you still heading here? Come on, Grantaire, give me something.”

Nothing.

There was talking on the other end, but it wasn't the voice Enjolras wanted to hear. It was that same one from before, who'd hailed Grantaire. Enjolras couldn't make out the words, but he could hear the tone, and it was... It was cold. And cruel.

Grantaire must not have lowered the phone much, because all of a sudden Enjolras could hear his heavy breathing. He inhaled and then spoke, and he sounded shaken to the bone.

“Please don't.”

What the _fuck._

Enjolras felt the sudden need to pull somebody's heart out, preferably whomever it was that was making Grantaire sound so... meek. _No one_ made Grantaire sound like that. No one made Grantaire _feel_ like that.

Fuck the phone, Enjolras was about to march out of the apartment and physically drag Grantaire back when he heard a strange noise over the line.

It was followed by an oddly still moment.

And then Grantaire made a quiet, strikingly pained sound, and in a sickening rush Enjolras realized what that popping he'd just heard was.

“Oh my god. Oh my god, no, Grantaire, talk to me, no. Grantaire. Please talk to me.”

There was a clatter on the other end of the line, and then a heavy thump.

“Grantaire?! Come on, talk to me. Please tell me I'm being crazy oh my god, _Grantaire._ ”

Breathing.

Every other sound around him filtered out to nothing, and all he could hear was hoarse, wet breathing. It was unbearable. It reminded him of second grade when Courf had that terrible asthma only this was so, so much worse.

“Grantaire! Answer me!”

Nothing. Just that _damn_ breathing.

“Grantaire, please.” His voice sounded odd. Distantly he felt something wet drop onto his cheek.

Oh.

“Grantaire.”

Combeferre was at his shoulder, trying to touch him; trying to talk to him. Their group of friends had migrated away from the door and were staring at him in horror.

“Grantaire.”

Could he still hear the breathing? It was getting hard to tell.

He turned and saw the TV still on. A young reporter was speaking, looking pale and stricken. He saw her lips moving but it took a moment to hear the words they were producing.

 

_“... has been restrained and will be taken away by the police. We have learned that the paramedics have arrived. There's no word yet on how many have been hurt or – or killed by the shooter or shooters, however, we have_ _just_ _been told by an eyewitness that at least one life has been lost today.”_

  


Enjolras ran.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay angst! I apologize in advance for the lack of resolution. And the ever so slightly OOC Enjolras. But really, I feel no regret. 
> 
> Enjoy!

* * *

 

“Son, you can't go in there.”

“Bullshit.”

Enjolras tried to push past the police officer in his way, but he was held back by strong arms.

“I'm serious. It's still dangerous. They're clearing away the stragglers and getting help to the injured. They don't need anyone in there getting in the way.”

Enjolras pulled away. The officer seemed to take it as his surrender and lowered his arms.

“I'm sorry. I know someone who – I think he's – I...” He paused, looking the man over. “Clearly you are a man who does his job well, and fairly. I respect you for that, Officer... Valjean. And normally I follow the law and defer to those above me in the system. But right now, you're keeping me from the man I love, who may well be bleeding out, and that is something that, however lawful, I cannot abide. So, I'm sorry. I really am.”

“What f-”

Enjolras' fist was making contact with his jaw before he could finish the question. The man went down immediately. For a slim build, Enjolras had some power, particularly when properly motivated.

He didn't even wait to see if the man was unconscious or merely hindered before turning and sprinting away, not stopping until he'd reached the Square, and then he was spinning around, searching with an unmatched focus driven by desperation for Grantaire.

It took him a moment. It took him an eternity.

Paramedics were only just arriving and they'd run to the first injured party they'd seen. It wasn't Grantaire. Policemen were staying with the rest but none of them were Grantaire.

Where the _hell_ was he?

Enjolras turned southeast. He would've been heading that way, towards Combeferre's apartment. There was an alley formed there at the corner, a thin path leading away from the wide open Square between two buildings.

Enjolras sprinted, hoping, barely breathing, losing vital seconds.

He turned the corner and felt the needle in his stomach blossom into a dagger and twist.

“Oh, God. _Grantaire._ ”

He was collapsed in a heap on his side, facing away from Enjolras. Blood was visible on the ground around him. Suddenly unable to run, scared to near-paralysis by what he would find, Enjolras took a staggering step forward, and then stumbled the rest of the way, falling heavily to his knees once he reached Grantaire.

The artist's eyes were closed, and his face was white. His limbs weren't moving, and there was a small hole in his shirt, right near the bottom hem, that was steadily oozing blood.

And yet, Enjolras felt he could breathe again, if only for a moment, because Grantaire's chest was moving. And a trembling finger on his throat confirmed that his heart was still beating.

“God. _God._ Grantaire? Come on, wake up, you're safe now. Please, Grantaire. You're – you're all right.” His clumsy hands tore off his sweatshirt and balled it up, pressing it hard to Grantaire's stomach.

Nothing. No response.

“Oh, God, I don't know what to do. I never know what to do with you.” Enjolras swallowed heavily, nestling a gentle hand in the thick, dark curls he loved so much. “Please look at me. Please let me know you're all right. Please let me know you're going to get out of this okay. Let me know I haven't gotten you killed.”

Nothing. _Nothing_.

“Oh, come on, you bastard, you never stop talking. For God's sake, Grantaire, at least _move._ Do _something._ ”

And just when Enjolras felt his final threads begin to fray, Grantaire responded. His head moved beneath Enjolras' hand, pain crossing his face.

“Hey. Hey there. There you go. Look at me.”

Grantaire's lips parted, followed soon after by his eyelids.

“.. j'lras?”

“Yes, it's me. I'm – I'm right here. Don't move, you've been shot. Don't move, just... stay here. Stay with me.”

“Mmkay.”

He was awake, but he wasn't very aware. And he was so _pale._ There was so much blood on the ground. So much. Enjolras put a hand to Grantaire's cheek, fear zipping through his chest with every too-quick heartbeat.

“Hey. Talk to me. Tell me one of your art department stories.”

“M'tired.”

“I know you're tired, but you can't sleep yet. Sleeping is bad, okay? Tell me a story. Recite a poem. Describe a painting, I don't care, Grantaire, just talk to me.”

Grantaire's head lolled to the side, coming to rest on Enjolras' thigh.

“No.” He half-smiled, and then frowned, his dark eyebrows coming together. “Am I dying?”

“No! God no. You're fine, what did I tell you?”

“Oh. Good.” He sighed, closing his eyes. And then opening them. His face grew serious and he stared at Enjolras until the blond made eye contact with him. “I love you.”

Jesus Christ. Enjolras took in a shaky breath, feeling nauseous upon catching sight of how much blood had soaked through his sweatshirt.

“I love you, too, Grantaire. I really do. So just... stay awake for me, okay? I'm going to get you out of here.”

Grantaire smiled, a weak hand gripping Enjolras' forearm. “You've never said that before.”

Enjolras almost asked what he meant when he realized.

 _I love you_.

Had he really never said it? That couldn't be right. And yet... The fact hit him like a slap to the face. This was the first time he'd vocalized what he'd felt every day for five years. Good Christ, why did Grantaire even stay with him? He didn't deserve...

Oh God.

He'd stopped talking. He'd let himself stop paying attention, _what the_ hell _, Enjolras._ And Grantaire's hand had fallen away from his arm. His eyes had closed.

“Fuck. Grantaire. _Grantaire._ No, fuck, don't do this, don't. Grantaire.”

“Over here!”

The new voice startled Enjolras. He looked up to see a white-coated man running towards them. One of the EMTs from the Square. He must have seen Enjolras run in.

“You're going to have to make room, son. We'll take care of your friend.”

“He's not...” The man gently moved Enjolras away, and he put up no protest, all of a sudden shell-shocked and indescribably exhausted.

A woman hurried in to join the man, toting a gurney behind her, and situated herself on the other side of Grantaire.

“Is he okay?”

Too quiet.

“Please. Is he okay?”

They were only speaking to each other, in urgent, quiet tones. The man had removed Enjolras' sweater and replaced it with gauze. Grantaire hadn't spoken or moved since they'd arrived, and from his new distance, Enjolras couldn't tell if he was breathing.

“Don't leave me.” It was a whisper, if that. A silent, broken plea to the lifeless man on the ground. When had he become so important?

In a sudden flurry of activity, the two EMTs lowered the gurney and transferred Grantaire onto it. The woman looked to Enjolras.

“We're taking him to Mercy General. We don't have room for you, I'm sorry.”

The started to hurry away. Enjolras' head spun, but he managed to form a few words, delivered in a hoarse rush.

“Will he be okay?”

The woman only gave him a sad look. “We're trying.”

And then they were gone. Nearly a minute after they'd disappeared, Enjolras shook himself and walked after them, deliriously hoping they'd still be there, fixing Grantaire, who would hop off the gurney and grin his stupid grin and go home with Enjolras.

But the Square was empty.

Enjolras turned out of the alley, took two steps, and collapsed.

 

 

Combeferre approached Enjolras carefully. The group had followed him out of the apartment and all the way to the Square, where they'd seen him deliberately attack a police officer and unlawfully enter a crime scene. They'd hung back when he'd rushed into the Square, though none of them particularly wanted to. Waiting there for the investigation to be done and the area to be cleared when they didn't know what was happening to their friends was the definition of Hell, but Combeferre, ever the voice of reason when he didn't want to be, held them back. It was no use getting them all arrested.

It was nearly two hours later when they were allowed into the Square, and to their surprise, Enjolras was still there.

Sitting. Against a wall. With blood on his clothes.

Joly gasped quietly, but otherwise the group made no sound.

Grantaire was nowhere to be seen.

Combeferre was the one to walk up to Enjolras, and knelt next to him. The blond didn't even seem to register his presence.

“... Enjolras?”

He made no response, and Combeferre felt his heartbeat nearly double.

“Enjolras.” He accompanied the name with a hand on his friend's shoulder, gentle but firm, and finally Enjolras looked at him.

His eyes were milky and bloodshot. His face was devoid of color but for two spots of pink, high on his cheekbones. His hands were trembling. In all their years of friendship, Combeferre had never seen Enjolras so physically broken down.

He slammed his own feelings of horror behind a thick mental wall and maintained a controlled expression.

“Enjolras, are you hurt?”

“No.”

God, his _voice._ It was flat and coarse and sounded absolutely nothing like the passionate and alive speaker for the underrepresented of earlier.

“Enjolras...” He didn't want to ask. He didn't want to know. _God, please, tell me I'm wrong._ “Where is Grantaire?”

Enjolras pulled his knees to his chest and calmly put both hands atop them. “I don't know.”

Combeferre breathed deeply and carefully. “What do you mean you don't know? Didn't you come here for him?”

“Yes. I found him.”

“And... he was... he was hurt?”

“Yes.”

Combeferre's heart seized. He took another cautiously measured breath. “But you don't know where he is now.”

“Not exactly.” Enjolras shrugged. His gaze was off in the middle distance, where it had been since he started talking. His expression stayed perfectly neutral as he spoke. “Could be in the hospital. Could be in the morgue.”

A choked, quiet utterance of 'Jesus _C_ _hrist_ ' came from the group. Jehan looked as though he was about to vomit.

“Enjolras.” Combeferre wasn't quite so composed now. His voice had a fair bit more urgency. “Did the paramedics take him? Was he alive then? Where did they go?”

Perhaps it was too many questions. Enjolras didn't answer; didn't even look at him, and Combeferre snapped. He grabbed his old friend by the shoulders and forced eye contact, and god, wasn't that painful.

“ _Enjolras. Tell me what happened._ ”

The change was immediate and shocking. Enjolras crumbled as though whatever force had been previously holding him up just disappeared.

“I – I found him. In the alley. There was so much blood, Combeferre. He was covered in it and I couldn't tell – I couldn't see – they took him away. I couldn't talk to him anymore, and I couldn't understand them, they just took him away and they were talking so quickly and I couldn't – I couldn't – I don't know if he's alive. I don't know if he's alive, Combeferre, and I can't – I can't – I can't go find out. I can't face it.”

His hands flew up to grip a stricken Combeferre's arms as he started to sob, harsh and ragged, uncaring of appearances.

“He could be dead. Oh my god, he could be dead and I _can't_ go. I can't find out. I've been sitting here since they left because if I go and they tell me he's – he's – I can't. I can't move. I can't go. I'm weak, Combeferre, I'm too weak for him and he might be _dead_ I only said it once and he might be dead oh my god _please-_ ”

Combeferre held him. He pulled his best friend of 12 years into his chest and let him cry despite the fact that he himself was internally breaking. They needed to go, now, but Enjolras needed this before they _could_ go. And so he held him, and tried to mentally distance himself from the fact that this was _Enjolras_ in his arms, strong, fearless, far too loving Enjolras, who hadn't cried at all since he was ten and his father walked out on him and who had never, ever fallen apart like _this_.

“Enjolras,” he finally says; whispers, really. “We have to go.”

And just like that, they were on their feet. Enjolras didn't even bother wiping away the tear tracks still wetting his cheeks. He stood and pulled back his shoulders.

“Mercy General.”

He said nothing more, and after a moment of shocked silence, the remaining Amis made a beeline to their cars.

“I can't drive.”

Combeferre only nodded to acknowledge Enjolras' matter-of-fact statement, and led them both to his car. He slid in and didn't even check to make sure they'd both buckled before he took off, quickly overtaking the speed limit and praying like he hadn't since he attended mass that they wouldn't arrive to more tragedy.

He wasn't sure Enjolras could survive it.

He wasn't sure any of them could.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, this one's a bit short. Didn't want to keep you all waiting, though. 
> 
> Enjoy!

**2 Dead, 4 Injured in Shooting**

**at Local Rights Rally**

_by Erika Swann_

A highly-anticipated rally for human rights at the

local university ended in tragedy today, when a

group opposing the event's cause started an outbreak

of shouted insults and hostility.

The violence reached its peak when an as-yet unnamed

shooter fired bullets into the rioting crowd, hitting

5 students and one faculty member.

The names of the victims have not yet been released.

A source who was at the event

tells us the two dead were both students at the university.

We'll have more information as we receive it.

Our thoughts and prayers are with those affected in this

horrible event.

  


  


The clean white halls of the hospital were overbearing, rising too-high above the weary, nervous visitors.

 

Combeferre led Enjolras to the main check-in on the ground floor. The lobby was full of people – most of them students from the college. They looked shell-shocked, all of them. Combeferre carefully skirted the group, shielding Enjolras from view. He didn't seem to notice.

They couldn't just wait there... there appeared to be a lone tech at the desk, her hair mussed and her eyes red. She'd undoubtedly been fielding a rush of frantic questions from desperate friends and family members all evening. Combeferre hated to add to her burden, but there was no choice.

“Combeferre?”

Well, that was a familiar voice. He turned.

“Fantine. Oh, thank God.”

A doctor he'd worked with at length in the past. She's the one who had got him the last summer's internship.

“It is you. Honey, you look awful. Is that Enjolras? Oh, my God. Follow me, there's an empty exam room down here, I'll personally check him out.”

“No, Fantine, you misunderstand. Enjolras is fine. Physically. But please, we do need your help. You know Grantaire, don't you?”

“Of course! Enjolras' boy, right? Yes. If he isn't the sweetest thing. You know he comes in sometimes and reads to-”

“Fantine. Please. He's been admitted here. He's hurt badly. We need to know how he is. If we can see him.”

Fantine's face lost a few shades of color. “Sweet Jesus. Of course. I'm so sorry, let me look. Follow me, right here.”

She swept to the nearest computer, pulling the keyboard halfway across a desk to start typing before she stopped walking.

“Grantaire, okay, yes...” Her fingers stilled, and her eyes grew bright. “Oh, that dear boy.”

Combeferre's hand spasmed. He clenched it into a fist. “Fantine. Please.”

“Right. Sorry. He was brought in two hours ago, for... God. A gunshot wound. He's in surgery. That's all I can tell you right now, I'm sor-”

_Thud._

Combeferre's brain seized up for a moment, overtaxed and unprepared for the anomaly of a sound he was privy to. Like a melon on...

_Oh Jesus Christ._

He pivoted around just as Fantine rushed past him, exclaiming.

Enjolras was splayed on the ground in the middle of the hallway, completely unconscious.

  


  


Jehan had been trying to get information on Grantaire for half an hour when he finally gave in and headed to the cafeteria to get a cup of coffee.

Much to his surprise, he found Combeferre there, alone, hunched over a bowl of something steaming in a corner of the dining room. He shouted wordlessly to his friend and vaulted over at least two chairs getting to him, completely forgetting about his coffee in the process.

It took nearly that entire time for Combeferre to raise his head, and his utterly exhausted and overwhelmed face showed only the barest hint of surprise.

“Jehan. Thank God, I've been looking for you all.”

“Please tell me you know what's going on.”

“Grantaire is alive.”

Jehan's eyes instantly welled up and he all but collapsed onto Combeferre's shoulder.

“ _Thank God._ ”

“He's alive but he's... not in good shape. He's still in surgery. I have a friend here at the hospital who's helping us, but she can't tell us what she doesn't know.”

“He's not dead. That's good enough for me.” Jehan lifted his head and seemed to register his surroundings for the first time in a while. “Where's Enjolras?”

Combeferre sighed deeply, his shoulders sinking with the strain of it. “Fantine admitted him after he collapsed in the hallway.”

“ _What_?”

“He's okay. Just exhausted. I don't think he's eaten since yesterday, and after what happened... his body couldn't take it. He'll be fine after some rest. I'd be with him, but Fantine forced me to eat under pain of becoming a patient myself.”

“Jesus,” Jehan breathed. “What happened? Today was supposed to be amazing.”

“Well... things happen. There's always a risk of rallies turning into riots... of course, none of us ever expected things to go this badly. But it will be okay. We'll get past this. Now come on, eat something. There's nothing we can do right now except get everyone up to speed.”

“Yeah. Most of them are in the waiting room downstairs. We tried calling you but the hospital doesn't really get service. I'll take you to them. I'll eat later, I promise. We have to let them know what's happening.”

  


  


Enjolras awoke to a pain in his head and a tugging on his arm. It reminded him of last summer when he'd been hit with that damn case of... oh, shit. Hospital. But why...?

Oh, right.

“Fuck!”

He tried to sit up and the world spun. A hand suddenly appeared at his shoulder, followed by a soothing voice.

“I wouldn't do that, honey. You've been unconscious for close to three hours and you're still very weak.”

“Grantaire.”

“He's okay.” A quiet sigh. “You know, Combeferre told me you care for him, but this... I'm sorry you had to go through so much today. But now you can rest easy. I promise. Grantaire will be okay. He's out of surgery and in recovery. The bullet missed most important things – his lung, notably. Anyway, it will take some time, but the bottom line is, he's going to be all right. And he will continue to be all right. So, why don't you get some sleep?”

He wanted to argue, but there was a heaviness in his bones and a pressure behind his eyes that made him relent to the darkness pulling at his mind.

  


  


He had been in that stupid hospital for three fucking days and Enjolras was starting to question everything he believed in.

“What's the point?” He'd asked, or shouted really, at Combeferre when he'd been told that they'd be keeping Grantaire unconscious 'for his own good,' because his system 'isn't strong enough to sustain him yet.' “What's the point of trying to do good, trying to help people, when all it does is get them hurt?”

And Combeferre had said, “it's normal.” He had said, “it's normal to feel like this, to lash out and doubt your beliefs when you're in a situation like this, when someone you love has been-”

“Love?” Enjolras had scoffed. “Love. To hell with love. This is why I don't bother. It tethers you down. It hurts you. Love,” he had spit, “is _useless._ ”

And Combeferre had looked at him with pain and tenderness both, and walked away.

Feuilly found him in the hallway later, kicked out of Grantaire's room for something about cleaning. The redhead sat next to him and joined him in his pursuit of staring at the wall for a while. He spoke after a few minutes, in his quiet, steady voice.

“I remember when my grandpa was in the hospital. Liver failure. He was old and never could give up his vodka. I was younger then. Didn't really know what was going on, except that the only person who had ever tried to understand or accept me was maybe dying and there was nothing I could do about it. I couldn't even talk to him the last few days – he was sleeping or in some procedure all the time.

“Helplessness is the worst feeling in the world, particularly to people like us, who tend to rely on no one and figure out problems on our own, and take it as a personal failure when we can't fix things. That week he was hospitalized was hell. Nothing to do but twiddle my thumbs and hope I got to talk to one of the most important people in my life again. And in that time I started having these thoughts. These doubts and questions. How could I have prevented this? Why get close to people if it always ends up here? What's the goddamn point of it all? Why should I care – about me, about others, about anything? All I could do in that hospital was sit and think, and I came to a realization.”

Feuilly had been staring ahead, but at this point he turned to Enjolras, not continuing to speak until they made eye contact.

“I had a choice. I could let this challenge defeat me, lose my grandfather, and give up on everything I'd believed in. Or. Or I could understand that this is life, and shit happens, and it's not always my fault. I could realize that one terrible event didn't mean everything I believed was wrong, and I still had my strength, and I could be there for the person I loved.”

Enjolras was silent. But after a moment, his blond hair bobbed in a small nod.

Feuilly smiled, gripped his shoulder tightly, and then stood. Before he could walk away, Enjolras spoke.

“Feuilly... your grandfather... what happened to him?”

“He's living in Santa Cruz with a 40-year-old and sticking to hard cider. Crazy bastard.”

He laughed and walked away.

Enjolras stayed where he was for quite some time.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow what I am alive oh my goodness! 
> 
> Oh boy. I've been away... a really god damn long time. Took a break from fanfiction for a while, but I can never leave for good. Not that I'd want to, of course. I didn't think I'd come back to this story, though, if I am to be honest. I thought about taking it down more than a few times, even before posting this because it has been so very long. But I guess I knew somewhere I couldn't let it be. 
> 
> If any of you out there remember me, I'm sorry! I didn't mean to leave you hanging at all, much less nearly a year. But what's done is done, eh? 
> 
> All that said, here you are. Another piece to this story that I don't intend on abandoning again. I apologize for the short length of this chapter, but alas, a plot's timeline does as it will. Enjoy, and don't be afraid to let me know what you think, even or perhaps especially if it's "don't fucking do that disappearing act again because you will lose every single one of your readers."

* * *

 

 

“Enjolras.”

Combeferre was gentle in waking up his friend, but it was still hard. Enjolras looked consistently exhausted now, never sleeping until forced and barely eating. Grantaire was... well, still alive. But at the end of his third day admitted, right when the doctors were becoming more hopeful and saying he'd be able to wake up soon... he'd come down with an infection. So there they were, on day five, and the immense strain was taking a toll on them all. Enjolras more than anyone. On the surface he may have seemed devoted solely to his cause, almost incapable of meaningful relationships. Combeferre – and all the others who'd bothered to get to know their leader – knew Enjolras held more love in him that most anyone. So much it was difficult for him to show. So much he was of the most passionate speakers and activists their college, town, or state had seen in a very long time. So much that when he finally shared an invaluable part of it with the most worthy person imaginable, and that person was nearly taken away because of the passions the rest of his love shared... He was very close to becoming a broken man.

“Enjolras?”

“Combeferre...” Enjolras sat up from his slouch in the chair beside Grantaire's bed. Immediately his gaze was drawn to the unconscious man, and his defeat was more evident than ever when he realized he wasn't being awaken because something had changed. “What is it?”

Strangely, Combeferre looked nervous. “There's someone here to see you.”

“Me?”

Combeferre only nodded, and looked toward the door.

Enjolras turned, and stood upon seeing the officer he'd assaulted at the beginning of this mess, before the whole fucking nightmare had really started. Setting his jaw, he glanced once toward Combeferre and Grantaire before almost marching out the door. He shut it behind him and turned to the other man, straight-faced.

“I assume you're here to arrest me.”

The officer – Valjean – sighed. “I certainly could. But I don't believe I should.”

Enjolras frowned, too weary and confused to even feel relief. “Then why are you here?”

“I saw you at the rally, before our... meeting. I know you were the organizer and I can see you're a good man. I even hope perhaps in the future we might work together. My point is... you are someone others should be like. Good, and hopeful for better things. And there's someone you care about enough to bypass those principles and strike a police officer to get to. I hope this isn't intrusive, but honestly, son, I came because I'm hoping they – and you – are okay.”

Enjolras was momentarily speechless. He took a breath to collect himself. “That is... incredibly kind of you.”

“I try to be a good man. I became a cop to help people. But I must admit, this isn't an entirely selfless visit. Enjolras, yes? Enjolras, we need more people like you. In this city and country both. For you to – to lose your drive for change, or worse, turn against it, would be quite a blow to the progress you and others like you have made. I've seen it happen to good men before and I don't want to see it happen here.”

“I... appreciate that. Thank you, I'm... Grantaire, he's...” Once more, Enjolras stopped, breathed, and spoke more firmly. “The man I went through you to save. His name is Grantaire. He is my boyfriend, though I feel that term cannot adequately express our relationship, as I suppose you've witnessed. He was shot. He's alive but unresponsive. I've been told he has an infection.”

“I'm truly sorry to hear that,” Valjean said, and judging from his expression, he meant it.

“As am I. But I believe in him. He's stronger than anyone else I know. And that is saying something.”

Valjean put a broad hand on Enjolras' shoulder. “I'm glad. I know we didn't quite meet in a positive manner – though you were quite polite before you hit me – so I know this is odd. But – and excuse the cliché – I see a lot of myself in you. A lot of what I could have been, long ago. So, please. If I can do anything for you, just let me know. And please, don't give up hope.”

“Thank you, officer.” Enjolras shook the hand that was offered to him. “And thank you for not arresting me.”

Valjean only smiled before turning on his heel and strolling away.

As soon as he was gone Combeferre emerged from Grantaire's room, eyes wide.

“My God, Enjolras, I thought for sure you were going to jail.”

“Me too.”

“What happened?”

“I hit the right man, apparently. Made myself a new ally.”

Combeferre laughed and leaned again the wall. “Only you, Enjolras.”

Enjolras tried to muster up a smile, but for the first time since they'd entered the hospital he was noticing just how _tired_ his friend looked. There were fine lines around his mouth, his limbs were loose but his neck tense, and although his lips were smiling, Enjolras had known him long enough to see the worry in his eyes. Enjolras realized with no little guilt that Combeferre had essentially been everyone's caretaker here, and had left no time or care for himself.

“'Ferre... how long has it been since you rested?”

“Me? Not too long, I'm fine. Don't try and turn the tables on me, Enjolras. You know I've always been better at taking care of myself than you, especially in such a situation as this.”

“Well,” Enjolras said ruefully, “I can't deny that. Just... don't spend too much time worrying about me.”

“Don't ask impossible things.”

Enjolras shook his head with a quiet sigh. He gripped Combeferre's arm before passing by him and returning to Grantaire's room and his chair by the bed. Combeferre did not follow, only closing the door quietly.

As much as he needed the support of his friends and had been hating being alone with a silent, unmoving Grantaire and his tumultuous thoughts, for once Enjolras was glad to be without company. In all this time, he'd barely spoken to Grantaire, having felt ridiculous talking to someone who couldn't respond. But now... five days. Five days he'd been without Grantaire. Five days he hadn't heard his voice. Five days he'd been unable to say everything he needed to. And he couldn't help it anymore. There were feelings and words thrumming in his chest and, whether Grantaire could hear or talk back or not, he no longer had the ability to hold them back.

Enjolras took Grantaire's hand in his own, lips tightening in pain when his grip wasn't returned.

“Grantaire. R... oh God, I don't know how to do this. I don't know what to say; where to start. I wish you had never been at that rally. I wish you would have stayed at home, where I couldn't hurt you. But I couldn't have kept you there if I'd used chains, you stubborn bastard. Still.... well there isn't any point in wishing.

“When I was on the phone with you – when you weren't wish me and you were still in danger, _away from me,_ God, Grantaire, I thought couldn't handle it. And then I heard that fucking shot.

“I hate what you do to me, do you know that? It's painful. And confusing, and complicated, and – _painful._ Because I can't _do_ anything about shit like this. I feel so fucking helpless.

“But you are strong. So strong. I know you don't see it and that kind of kills me, to be honest. You're strong and brave and beautiful, and I know I haven't said that enough. Which is why you have to wake up. So I can tell you how amazing you are, and how much I fucking love you. Okay? I know you've been dying to hear all this. Maybe that's conceited or presumptuous but what else would you expect from me? I've been an idiot. I haven't treated you like I should have. But I want to. I want that chance. Because I love you, honestly I do. Not like I love this country, or freedom even. I love you in an entirely different and terrifying way. The way you've loved me for a hell of a lot longer than I've deserved. So just, please wake up... I can't handle the waiting any more.”

Enjolras waited. He hoped. He held out for the movie moment when Grantaire would stir, and smile at him, and everything would be okay again. They'd go home, he would heal, Enjolras would deal with the fallout of the rally-gone-riot-gone-shooting, and they would be fine. More than fine. Maybe even happy.

And yet, nothing. Nothing at all but more of the same.

Enjolras didn't even have the strength to sigh, or speak anymore. He leaned over into the bed, arm over Grantaire's hips, forehead awkwardly pushed between his arm and stomach. He laid there until he could no longer hold his eyes open, and fell into a restless sleep while hoping from somewhere deep within him than when we woke, he wouldn't be alone anymore.

 

* * *

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My tumblr is jehansmuse. Come say hi/bully me into writing more. 
> 
> Many thanks, my dears.


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